Do You Love Anyone Enough?
by kirby russell
Summary: The Doctor's train of thought has totally derailed, and it only leads to places he doesn't wish to go. PostDoomsday.


Disclaimer: This is how I feel the inside of The Doctor's head would be, but I don't know, because he's not mine.

It's a bit dodgy, this process, trying to heal the heart. No more tricks up his sleeves, the lonely god alone again. Loneliness is a constant ache all over; he feels like a sick child without a mother. Are you my mummy? Lord, but that was an adventure, ol' Cap'n Jack, he still remembers when she smiled at the rogue the taste of copper in his mouth. That was the smile she saved for _him_, the one he risked his life for. Her smile made his stomach clench, he was never hungrier than when she looked at him. And now there was nothing but the ache, all the time; no matter how many new skies he saw, he could only think of what she would look like under them.

He knew he would lose her at some point. Seems impossible to be without her, now that it's actually happened, but he always tried to stay distant because he knew that someday, she would be gone. He knew, yes, he knew too well they all moved on eventually, falling in love with a more reliable, more comforting, less infuriating men than he. How many has it been now, girls into women before his eyes, unable to even put his arm around them without risking his fragile immortal heart. Paradoxes were funny that way; sort of his job to fix them but his entire life was one huge jumbled riddle. A whole army of Time Lords couldn't sort it out, not like any were around, oh dear there's the guilt, he'd wondered where it'd run off to, but no, still there, all's well that ends in crippling blinding guilt. Should put that into a motto, though he's sure he's seen similar before, probably on Aeslibes, those daft bums. Good curry, though. Made his eyes water, it was that strong, that's why he hated eating it, didn't want anyone to think he was crying, that wouldn't do for the image, he can count on half a regenerated hand how many times…

Oh look, the extension needs to be replaced.

Oh, blast it all. He'd been needing some brooding time anyway.

He'd been fine until her, if he's honest. The only one to put up a fight. The way her eyes matched his for mischief and madness excited him, a true match. She would have made a good Time Lord with him, he thinks; she had the cheek. They'd end up exiling her as well, most likely, too much spunk, but more than that: she would've cared too much. He loved watching her with people, she exemplified all the reasons why he still bothered to care. Caring is hard when you're over 900, he's learned, you forget you're supposed to pretend all the time. He forgets the little niceties, but he's always put the bigger picture before the moment. Chivalry was a coin toss, who cares about holding the door open when there's a planet to save? Decency is a completely different matter, he doesn't want to get started, his philosophies hold more than heaven and earth—well, but that's a damned good turn of phrase, quite clever too, should be shared really, but suffice to say he's thought long and hard and has come to the conclusion that his whims are just about as concrete as any dogma. His whim was what brought him to her, after all, so they can't be all that bad.

Yes, 'twas hard to stay focused when his nostrils tickle with the lingering tendrils of her scent (shampoo, time and space, that odd lotion she was always making him go back for, she forgot a bottle, he keeps it just in case). He finds it oddly comforting, it reminds him of when she was near enough to smell—usually in fear of being eaten or maimed or some such, there are so many ways to die, really, he's seen them all he thinks, the more creative ones came from those you'd least expect, once he found a chamber involving, well, he'll spare the details, but it was always interesting how creativity blossomed. Creativity is what lights up the stars, but he's never found any species quite so constantly inspired as humans; that's why they're his favourites, really. He knows why they channel it into their death games, but he can never quite get to the point of sympathizing. Coward or killer, coward any day, it's not a hard choice for him, he can see the ramifications of both far into the future-- Aristotle would be proud, an excellent man indeed, fantastic even. He knows if he went back and told him exactly how the old bugger would tilt his head and smile slightly, condescendingly but with patience as for a child, one of those quirks passed down to all the ones who know too much. He had his own quirks, sure, and some of them are even endearing, at least that's what Rose likes to...


End file.
